Rita was sneaking. She was lurking and scoping out the possibility that il Pentamerone might be a suitable homestead when she took her final inevitable stand against the repression of her caregivers. She was also too hot, since she was still wearing her coat, and a little damp around the bangs from a trying to wash her face in a sink. She crossed her arms in front of her like a crusaders' cross on the diagonal, and she kept looking at lamps like she'd expected they'd leap off their fancy podiums and bludgeon her to death. She was on a quest. She sought the kitchen.
Rita Kozlow would share no such feeling of extreme recognition when she met her elder equivalent tale, though this might have been because any pangs of the gut were far overshadowed by hunger. Rita was starving in the grimmest, most discovery-channel-documentary kind of way, at least by her own approximation; maybe it was more of an animal planet kind of deal? Anyway, Rita was ravished. She'd sort of spent all her money on a shirt and her Aunts' larders contained only jars
( ... )
"That it is," he said, wiping his hands on a maybe-clean dish towel. He turned towards her and leaned against the counter while the steaks sizzled in the skillet. She was cute, in a kind of ragamuffin way, like a straggly kitten. He tilted his head at her.
"Um. Both, probably," she suggested, entering the room on the shady pretense of checking it out. It wasn't completely false. People checked out kitchens before they worked in, right? The chances of her cooking anything more involved than a box of Kraft were, granted, slim as sin, but she had the right to do it. Damn anyone who suggested otherwise. Taking a few steps in, Rita looked upwards and then around, still carefully, almost defensively casual about it.
"You're nonchalant, I get it already," Luke said with a chuckle. He'd seen that same look in dogs who "accidentally" wandered close enough to take a bite off your plate and then gave a look that said 'oh you were going to eat that? I'm so sorry I didn't know!'
"I'm Luke," he said, turning back to take the steaks off the skillet.
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Rita Kozlow would share no such feeling of extreme recognition when she met her elder equivalent tale, though this might have been because any pangs of the gut were far overshadowed by hunger. Rita was starving in the grimmest, most discovery-channel-documentary kind of way, at least by her own approximation; maybe it was more of an animal planet kind of deal? Anyway, Rita was ravished. She'd sort of spent all her money on a shirt and her Aunts' larders contained only jars ( ... )
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"So you new around the Pen or just scarce?"
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"I'm Luke," he said, turning back to take the steaks off the skillet.
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